


A Wild and Wondrous Thing

by IneffablePenguin



Series: Love, and Other Ineffable Things [13]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Finding home, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Some Humor, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love, chosen spaces, finding where you belong, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffablePenguin/pseuds/IneffablePenguin
Summary: Wherein the husbands finally make the big move to their new home in the South Downs, and encounter a rather unexpected visitor.[Includes an illustration]{Part 13 of the 'Love, and Other Ineffable Things' series}
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Love, and Other Ineffable Things [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1405606
Comments: 60
Kudos: 333





	A Wild and Wondrous Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Thus far, this story has been in series form, posted in individual shorter snippets. Now that we’ve graduated to a totally different phase of their lives, the rest of the story will be in one, chaptered fic starting with the NEXT installment. 
> 
> Again, thanks SO much to all my readers, you guys are amazing!

* * *

Crowley set down what he fervently hoped was the last box of books, and straightened with a groan.

Moving, he decided, was one human experience he could do without in future. It had been a learning experience, that was for damn certain, and so far the primary lesson learned was this: Books, as it turned out, were bloody _heavy._ He had never realized just how heavy they were. Stacked together they felt far more like cinder blocks than paper, and he was not exactly what you would call a powerhouse of upper body strength. Manual labour was _not_ a part of his normal routine, and every inch of his much-abused body was protesting the addition. He blew out a huge breath and kneaded at his lower back, glancing around the room to be sure he was alone. He would prefer that Aziraphale not see him sweating and straining to complete such a simple task. The angel tried so hard to forget that he wasn’t human, and so rarely showed it off, that sometimes he also completely forgot how effortlessly strong he was, at least compared to Crowley. It was frustrating. And terribly sexy, but that was not very helpful at the moment. 

The box he had just heaved into place was only the latest in a steadily growing tower of them, stacked in the corner of the downstairs sitting room. After the tenth trip from the van, through the house and up the polished wooden staircase to the library, he had put his (aching) foot down: they could carry the rest of the books up later. Now he slumped against the wall for a minute, catching his breath and for the first time in his life regretting his body’s lack of physical prowess. Maybe he should take up jogging. No, definitely not jogging; jogging looked hopelessly stupid. All exercise looked hopelessly stupid. He couldn’t just miracle himself up some damn muscles, either, to his chagrin. Aziraphale would never let him live it down. 

Speaking of, _he_ was certainly taking his time. None of this would be necessary at all if his husband had even the slightest bit of restraint in the pursuit of his hobbies. They had finished bringing in all of Crowley’s belongings more than an hour ago, after all. He hadn’t brought all that much from his old flat; most of it had been for show anyways, like props on a stage. With the exception of his plants and his Bentley, he simply hadn’t grown very strongly attached to a lot of his stuff. No, the entire last hour had been spent hauling in Aziraphale’s many, many boxes and knick-knacks from the moving van, all of which apparently had some kind of indispensable value. The hired movers had departed right after putting the furniture in place - the angel had waved them off with a cheerful “We’ll take it from here, there’s not much left!” It had seemed alarmingly optimistic to him at the time, and sure enough now Crowley was wishing that they had kept them on just a bit longer. As it turned out, _not much left_ was quite a lot left when it was comprised almost entirely of enormous hardback bloody deadweights. 

Compounding the difficulty was the fact that the weather was particularly bad today. Big blustery gusts threw occasional fistfuls of icy rain against the windows with a rat-a-tat, and the sky was an ominous mass of iron-grey clouds. A chill wind whipped through the trees, filling the air with petrichor and the rich, earthy smells of the country in spring. 

Crowley was exhausted, sore, and rather uncomfortably damp. There was a knot in his lower back the size of a fist and his hands were crisscrossed with welted lines from the heavy boxes. His beleaguered arms had the constitution of wet paper, he had stubbed his little toe on the fireplace, and his designer clothes were covered in dust...and yet, as he settled himself onto a nearby box to rest, he was completely, utterly happy. 

Despite the move being his own idea, at first he’d been slightly wary about such a drastic change of scenery. He’d been a city creature all his life (or for as long as cities had existed, anyway), and the countryside was largely foreign to him. But then they had found the perfect house, in a wonderful little town in Hampshire, and Aziraphale’s face had lit up like a Christmas tree. In the face of that very contagious excitement Crowley’s reservations had vanished as quickly as they’d arrived, and his own enthusiasm set in. How bad could anything be, really, with Aziraphale there? This was everything he’d ever wanted; all else was details and background noise. To be allowed to wake up next to him every single morning and simply _be_...well, there was nothing closer to heaven than that. One you got past the initial moving process, at least.

Besides, he thought as he looked around the room again…it really was a very beautiful house. 

Their new home was a handsome, two-story cottage, in varying shades of brown brick, with a peaked roof and arched front door. Dark green leafy vines crawled up the sides and twined between large latticed windows, and the occasional flower bloomed here and there among the foliage. “Like something out of a story,” Aziraphale had exclaimed in delight when the agent showed it to them. Crowley had rolled his eyes at that, but he couldn’t deny it was a fitting place. Aziraphale himself was like something out of a story.

He’d been pleased to find that the interior was far more upgraded and elegant than the outside would suggest, too, and he was confident that with time he could inject some serious style into the place. 

Things had moved swiftly from there - he was learning that when Aziraphale decided to make big changes in his life, he made them all at once, with the same impatience and enthusiasm that he usually reserved for food. Now here they were. Not even two months after their wedding. 

They had closed the bookshop’s doors to the public for the final time only last week, and Crowley had felt unexpectedly wistful about it. The beautiful little Soho shop had seen them through some very interesting times over the years, both good and bad, and he had grown attached without realizing it. It had always been a point of calm in the storm. He’d been so worried about Aziraphale’s reaction, but the angel had ended up taking an unexpectedly pragmatic view of the entire thing. When asked how he was feeling, he had answered that everything he truly cared about was coming with them, so what was there to miss, really, at the end of the day? And gone happily back to cataloguing his books.For someone so completely predictable he could be wonderfully surprising. Of all the things he loved about him, that trait was surely near the top. He found it as enchanting now as he had at the Beginning.

In many ways, that beginning was a tale of three surprises. Crowley leaned his head back against the wall and smirked to himself, remembering. So impossibly long ago, but still one of his favourite memories. Aziraphale had been so confused and awkward and uncomfortable…and kind. Crowley had not expected him to be so kind. He had spoken to him like a person, rather than something foul to be scraped off his (nonexistent) shoe. That was the first surprise, and it had struck him like a ballista bolt right through the place where he usually guarded his heart. Then the ridiculous angel had revealed (to him! the Enemy!) that he had defied orders and given away his only weapon, out of compassion. That was far more courage of character than he would have ever thought to find in an officer. And finally...he had been beautiful. Not just pretty, because all angels were usually pretty in some way. Hard not to be, with the flashy way they glowed. But beautiful in a way that transcended simple appearance, with a depth that took his breath away. That triple punch of surprising beauty, courage and kindness had seized his heart with iron fingers and never let go. 

Since then he’d also learned that Aziraphale had just the right touch of chaos in him to keep things interesting. 

His reaction to moving made sense, though, when he really thought about it. As much as the angel had loved it, the bookshop had always been a front for what he knew Aziraphale really wanted to do, which was to just collect books and enjoy human things. He was clearly excited to drop the façade and finally live as he’d always wished, without fear of ridicule or discovery or a customer accidentally purchasing a book, God forbid.

Aziraphale was finally getting his wish, at any rate. The largest room upstairs - the supposed master bedroom, with its vaulted ceiling and tall, airy windows - had been set aside instead to create the promised library. Right now it was filled from wall to wall with stacked cardboard boxes of varying sizes, marked “BOOKS”, “RARE BOOKS”, “MOST ESPECIALLY RARE BOOKS” and “THIS END UP!” in the angel’s careful handwriting. Aziraphale had big plans for the room, and was already deep in discussions with a local carpentry service about shelving additions and display tables. 

With a jolt, Crowley suddenly realized that he’d just been sitting there for quite a while, eyes half-closed, lost in thought. The last thing he needed was to fall asleep and be discovered slumped over the moving boxes like an idiot corpse. He pushed himself away from the wall and to his feet with a groan, feeling like a piece of overcooked spaghetti. He began reluctantly shuffling back towards the kitchen, towards the front for another round. 

At that moment he heard the front door close with a _whump_ , and a draft of chill air blew briefly through the house. 

“Well, this is the last of it! Would you look at that; we’re officially moved in.” Aziraphale’s voice grew steadily louder as he bustled back in through the kitchen from the entryway, a bounce in his step and two enormous boxes stacked in his arms. Crowley watched him jealously- that simply wasn’t fair at all. The angel set the boxes down on the dining table with an effortless flourish and turned to him, smiling. “Now it’s just a matter of putting everything exactly where we want it, and there’s no rush for that. That part will be fun.” 

“Yeah, it will.” Crowley leaned against the table and grinned, looking him over. Aziraphale’s usually immaculate appearance was rather bedraggled from the wind and rain, but the weather had clearly failed to dampen his spirits one iota. He’d had a kind of giddy energy about him all day, much like Crowley himself, and practically sparked with excitement. The angel was also almost scandalously underdressed by his usual standards: the pale-blue shirt sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbows for the day’s work, and he wore no waistcoat at all. The top _three_ buttons of the shirt collar were open, and his white-blond hair was damp and mussed. He looked…well, dammit, he looked almost unbearably cute. He’d spent all afternoon trying not to stare. 

Aziraphale brushed dust off his hands and briskly rubbed his fingers together to warm them. Crowley noted with concern that he was shivering, so he immediately walked over and slid his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close to his chest. Demon bodies ran hotter than humans did, due to the tiny spark of Hellfire that burned at their core, and on cold days like this it definitely came in handy. Also, the idea of warming an angel with Hell’s fire always gave him a bit of a wicked chuckle. Any opportunity to both touch Aziraphale and flip off Gabriel (either literally or figuratively) was great in his mind.

He felt the familiar stab of irritation at the thought of the archangel, and made sure to hug his own angel extra hard just in case he was somehow watching. He almost hoped Gabriel _had_ been watching the previous [evening](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21526366), if only for the expression of horror it would have surely evoked.

Aziraphale leaned into his warmth and hugged him around the waist. “Ahh, thank you, darling. That’s much better.” 

“I’m glad.” The pale blue shirt was damp under his hands, so with a quick mental command and a ripple of fabric he banished every last drop of water from both of their clothing. A final snap of his fingers set flames roaring merrily in the enormous brick fireplace on the wall. That fireplace was one of his favourite things about the house, and the best part of the sitting room by far. He didn’t get cold easily, but he liked how quickly a fire brought a space to life and made everything look bright and cheerful. Aziraphale hummed contentedly and laid his head on his now-dry shoulder, and Crowley felt him relax as the fresh heat washed over them. 

He wrapped his arms tight around his husband, and it was both the simplest and most remarkable thing in the world. 

Dreaming about something for millennia gave it a surreal quality when it finally happened, and less than a year ago this would have still seemed impossible. He was fairly certain that if he had tried to hold Aziraphale like this, prior to Armageddon, the angel would have punched him out of sheer panicked reflex. Yet here they were, despite all the odds. Some miracles had nothing whatsoever to do with magic. He sighed and pressed his nose into the blond hair, closing his eyes. Six thousand years, and he had never known how much happiness could be had in a simple hug. They certainly weren’t big on hugs in Hell. Or Heaven, for that matter. The poor bastards had no idea what they were missing. 

If Crowley had ever been asked to write a list of things likely to transform his life, human touch would not have even been a footnote on the page. But transform him it had. He still didn’t fully understand it, but he considered it one of the most spectacular gifts the Almighty had ever given humanity. The sense of intimacy and connection it fostered was staggering; there was a power in touch that went far deeper than the skin, that transcended description. And not just sexual touching, either- he had been at least somewhat prepared for the power of _that_ , after millennia of watching humans fall like threshed wheat before sexual temptations. That experience had been a revelation, but not entirely a surprise. No, what had left him reeling was the simple brush of the angel’s hand on his waist as he passed him in the hall, of his fingers against his cheek, the gentle press of their arms as he sat close next to him at the desk. The softness of his body as he held him tightly in bed each night with his lips against his neck, or on their sofa, talking of small things. They touched each other in a dozen little, casual ways every single day, and it had suddenly become as necessary as oxygen. He drank it in like a plant soaking in sunlight or rain, and like a flower he felt himself unfurl just a little more every time. 

“I’d better go tell the van driver that he can leave. It’s cold out there,” Aziraphale said after a couple minutes. He let go of him with a reluctant sigh and kissed his cheek, then made his way back out to the front again. 

Crowley decided to take the opportunity to go check on his plants; he wandered through the sitting room to the far corner of the house, to the last (and smallest) downstairs room. He’d claimed this particular room because it had the most windows and therefore the best sunlight, and he was very pleased with it. He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, and cast a critical eye over the vibrantly green potted plants arrayed on the folding tables. He hadn’t properly shouted at them in a couple months, and they were getting complacent. Sure, he still swore at them from time to time, but it was more for tradition’s sake at this point. His heart just hadn’t been in it lately; he couldn’t seem to work up the motivation when Aziraphale was around. To make matters worse, the angel had developed the terrible habit of mentioning how pretty they looked, which surely was going to ruin them. He fixed the nearest fern with his most intimidating glare. Maybe now that he had them so conveniently placed and accessible, he could get back on track, and turn over a new leaf. The second the stupid joke passed through his mind he groaned and thumped his forehead against the doorframe. _Ow._

He heard Aziraphale call his name from the front, so he gave the plants a final withering glance and went to go see what he wanted. 

Aziraphale was standing by the front door; he now had his coat on and was busily wrapping a brown chequered scarf around his neck. 

“Where on earth do you think you’re going?” 

The angel grinned up at him, still radiating that same excited energy. God, he was cute. “I’m told that the little bakery just down the street has the most _excellent_ pastries. I’m going to go get us something so we can celebrate.” He tucked the ends of the scarf into his coat and buttoned it up to his chin. 

Crowley glanced skeptically out the latticed window. It wasn’t currently raining, but the trees were lashing back and forth in agitation. The sky was as gloomy and sullen as ever. “You’re really going out again in this? Are you sure?” 

Aziraphale took both his hands, twining their fingers together. “It won't take long at all. Why don’t you choose us a nice bottle of wine, something light? When I get back we can give this place a proper welcome.” He reached up to comb his hair back from his forehead. It had grown out a bit lately, and had fallen down over his face with all the exertion. 

Crowley closed his eyes and leaned briefly into the touch. “That sounds good to me.” By now he really should be used to the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if he ever would be, and he didn’t mind that at all. 

He looked down at that earnest face, and was drawn to kiss him. Six thousand years of habit caused him to repress the urge for an instant, before remembering that he didn’t have to anymore. So he didn’t. He slid his hands around the soft waist, pulled him fully into his arms, and kissed him as slowly as he possibly could. It was both a statement and a question, and Aziraphale answered the way he always did; his arms encircled his neck in turn and he sighed against his mouth. And _that_ response, being wanted, was still incredible enough to make him lightheaded. Neither of them pulled away, so the kiss continued, lingering on and on, and on, as the seconds ticked past. He decided he didn’t feel like stopping, so he didn’t. He only tightened his arms and leaned him back slightly to press against the door. He kissed his angel, and luxuriated in the impossible feeling of getting what he wanted. 

He was still not used to wanting and having living so close together. 

Crowley finally pulled back a little and sighed. “Do you really need to go right now?” 

Aziraphale looked far less certain than he had a minute ago. “Only...only if I want to get there before it closes.” 

“Hnngh.” Well, that was that. He wasn’t going to get between Aziraphale and sweets; it would be a losing battle anyway. “And are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” 

Aziraphale cupped a hand to his cheek and smiled at him, blue eyes twinkling, and Crowley felt his world tilt ever so slightly. “There’s no sense in both of us going out in this. I want you to go sit in front of the fire and relax. It will just be a few minutes.” 

“I guess I can manage that. Hurry back.” He kissed his lips a final time, and let him go. 

He leaned against the window and watched the angel walk briskly down the pathway, a bright figure in the grey, struggling with the red umbrella as the wind tried to tug it out of his hands. Fitful gusts whipped at his tan coat and blew his pale hair in all directions, but he marched determinedly on without faltering. Nothing motivated Aziraphale quite like dessert. Crowley’s mouth quirked up involuntarily into a small smile. He found himself doing that a lot lately. He was certain that he had smiled more in the past half a year than he had in the last thousand years before it, combined. Perhaps two thousand. At this rate his carefully constructed image was going to be in tatters. 

The problem was, it was nearly impossible _not_ to smile when Aziraphale was around, even when he was being fussy enough to drive him mad or embarrassing him to death. When Aziraphale looked at him, he didn’t see something flawed or damaged. Aziraphale knew all of his jagged edges, and somehow loved them just as fiercely. That alone was a most remarkable thing. 

It felt like.... 

Once, years and years ago, in a fit of bureaucratic incompetence, he had been sent to Japan on assignment do a few quick temptations. It had been a miserable week; trying to tempt someone in a language he didn’t speak had been the most pointless experience of his long life. But while he was there he had found a little shop run by a wizened old man, and they had sold a very interesting style of pottery. Every single bowl and cup and plate had been broken, smashed apart, then the shards carefully reassembled and fixed together using molten gold. The end result was an entirely unique pattern of gold spreading across each piece, somehow more beautiful than what it had been before. He had been fascinated by it, far more than any respectable demon should be, and had spent far too many supposedly-working hours lurking around the shop to watch. 

It felt like that. Aziraphale had taken all his broken pieces and brought them together, and bound them with shining gold. 

He jerked from his reverie to realize that he had been idly tracing the letter “A” with his finger on the cold-fogged window. He hastily smudged it out, wondering if he had completely lost his mind. Was this what it felt like to go mad? Every single thought seemed to circle back to Aziraphale nowadays; the angel was like a strain of music that he could not get out of his head. It was fiddling with all his instincts and he couldn’t even predict his own emotional reactions to things anymore. 

Ah, well _._ He gave a mental shrug. Sanity was overrated anyway. He was either slowly losing it or slowly finding it, but he really couldn’t give less of a shit which. He didn't _want_ to stop seeing Aziraphale's smile every time he closed his eyes, or listening for his step in every creak of the floorboards. Was it a hallmark of madness, that you did not care to find a cure?

To be loved, as it turned out, was a wild and wondrous thing. 

Humming - _humming,_ dear Satan - he turned on his heel and walked jauntily back through the house, towards the sitting room, hands wedged in his pockets. Aziraphale’s suggestion to relax was sounding more and more appealing by the minute; he thought he might just take him up on it. His feet hurt. His everything hurt.

As he passed through the kitchen he suddenly halted and looked around, really looked around at their new home for the first time since the morning. An odd, undefined feeling had been sneaking up on him all day, and as heran a hand over the marble countertop he thought he could finally put his finger on what it was: Home. He’d never had a home before. 

Well, more specifically, home had never been a _place_ before, only a person. And his Bentley, but that was far more like a person than a place, when you really got down to it. Sure, he’d had his flat, and other flats before that. But he had never considered any of them much more than a place to store his things and sleep at the end of each day. There had never been a strong emotional connection to any of those places, not the way Aziraphale had felt about his bookshop. Truth be told, he had felt more at home in the bookshop even before he had moved in. He had certainly never felt at home in Hell, or even Heaven before that (from what little he could remember). 

But this...He looked around at the rooms again. So different from his sleek, sterile flat. One of his smaller potted plants sat right there next to Aziraphale’s gleaming brass record player. The enormous flat screen television and matte black, state-of-the-art sound system from his flat were already in place against the sitting room wall, tucked neatly between wooden shelves stuffed with faded leather books. His smartphone (the latest model, naturally) was currently plugged in and charging next to Aziraphale’s ridiculous rotary-dial setup. Six thousand years-worth of competing aesthetics were bound to create a bit of an eclectic mix, but he liked it. This house was a little space carved out between worlds, a piece of the universe to make entirely theirs, eccentricities and all. They both _belonged_ here. 

It was a feeling he could definitely get used to. 

He kicked off his snakeskin shoes with a groan of relief, letting them lie where they fell, and padded across the wooden floors into the sitting room in his socks. It was still a bit chaotic in here. Various bits and pieces of their newly entwined lives were scattered casually about on every surface, like coordinates affirming he was no longer alone. Boxes and boxes of books were piled haphazard around (mostly by him) in every corner. But all the furniture was in place at least, and it was already giving the room an air of the familiar. 

They had brought their sofa from the bookshop, of course, but at the moment the overstuffed, tartan-patterned easy chair right by the fireplace looked especially inviting. He settled into it with a grunt and put his stockinged feet up on the lacquered wooden side table. The chair was a new addition, the only new addition so far. Aziraphale had seen it for sale during the moving process and immediately loved it. Crowley thought it was probably the ugliest chair he had ever seen, but it was also incredibly comfortable, so he’d allowed it. At least, that’s what he’d said at the time. 

After a moment’s consideration he swiveled to lie sideways across it instead, draping his legs out over the padded armrest. Much better. Aziraphale always fussed at him when he sat like this, saying that it was going to ruin the furniture in time, but he wasn’t here right now, ha. He smirked and crossed his arms, wiggling down a bit. The cushions were plush and soft, and best of all it smelled like Aziraphale’s cologne. He sighed. The warm fire crackled merrily in sharp contrast to the cold, gloomy day outside. Flickering heat washed over him like a hot bath, soothing his aches, and he let his head fall back and eyes slide closed. It was the perfect opportunity for a nap. He lay in perfect, peaceful silence for a minute, enjoying the tranquility soaking into his bones. 

There was a soft thump somewhere in front of him, and the chair trembled slightly. 

_Wha-?_ He raised his head and opened his eyes, and blinked. Then blinked again. 

There was a cat sitting on the armrest of the chair, between his legs. 

It was so completely incongruous that for a long moment he just stared, wondering if he had already dozed off after all. The cat stared coolly back at him with unblinking green eyes. It looked real enough. 

What the- Where the hell had it come from? How had it even got inside? Crowley looked around, but the windows were all firmly shut. “What the fuck?” he muttered. He examined the cat warily, wondering if Aziraphale was playing a joke on him somehow. It was small and very skinny, and soot-black from head to toe. A ragged chunk of its right ear was gone, as if torn off in a fight. Definitely a stray. 

He was far too tired to get up and deal with this. “Well, you definitely chose the wrong house,” he commented. “Get.”

The cat made no reply, and just sat perched there on Aziraphale’s chair like it owned it, looking down its nose at him as though _he_ had been the one to intrude. Its paws were wet, he noticed indignantly, and leaving damp spots on the tartan fabric. 

Crowley sat very still and glared back at it, arms crossed. Green and gold slitted eyes sized each other up. The cat seemed unimpressed with his glare, and didn’t budge or move away. That in itself was strange, considering. 

The thing was – though he’d rather perform card tricks than admit it – Crowley actually quite liked animals. The trouble was that they did _not_ care for him in return. Dogs of every size, breed, and disposition greeted him with raised hackles and hysterical snarling; aquatic creatures fled from any body of water that he entered; and all animals of prey avoided him like the plague. Even insects kept their distance. Animals were simply too intuitive, and their tiny instincts screamed that something about him was definitely Not Right. As a result they loathed him, and were always either scrambling to get away or simply lashing out. He couldn’t go anywhere near geese, for example. The vicious things would attack in flocks, like feathery pirhanas, completely without fear and far more destructive than they had any right to be. It had made for an incredibly embarrassing day and a completely botched temptation some years back, and now he could never, ever again show his face in that part of Surrey. The very memory still made his cheeks burn. 

He could always tamper with animals’ reactions, of course, but that got exhausting fast. And there was something indescribably depressing about miracling a dog into tolerating you. He had grown used to simply masking his presence from animals entirely whenever the occasions arose. It had been part of what made riding horseback such a miserable job, back in the day. One slip of concentration and the bloody useless creatures would go mad with terror, rearing and bucking all over the road, pummeling his balls into paste and scattering his possessions around. He had never been a fan of horses. He had (secretly) thanked God quite fervently for the invention of the automobile. 

Cats, however...cats were arrogant little bastards. He rather liked them. 

This particular little bastard was standing very, unusually close, and continued staring coolly at him as if daring him to comment. It was becoming just a little bit unsettling. “Shoo, get lost,” he muttered, and flapped a dismissive hand at it. “Out the way you came in, however the hell that was.” He prodded lazily at it with one sock-clad foot. 

The cat didn’t run. It didn’t even react; it just sat there looking at him, clearly skeptical of his authority. It didn’t seem to be nervous at all; in fact, it settled itself down to rest on its paws and glanced away, as if bored with the entire situation. 

Crowley frowned. What the hell was wrong with it? Was it sick? By now it should be backing away in unease, at the very least. Equal parts irritated and curious now, he leaned forward and slowly extended his hand. It would be funny to see how long it took for the thing to break and run, though he would have to be wary just in case this one was a scratcher. He’d had a few unpleasant experiences. 

Large emerald eyes blinked indifferently at him, and it simply watched as his fingers drew closer and closer. At the last possible second the cat finally moved, assuredly to bite or to leap away. 

It butted its head up against his hand. Crowley froze, incredulous. When he didn’t move, the cat bumped him again, so he cautiously extended a finger and scratched behind the torn ear. The black fur was soft and fine, and after a moment a low-pitched sound began to emanate from the scrawny chest. Crowley sat stunned, immobilized, hardly able to believe it. Hardly breathing. It was the first willing, un-coerced contact that an animal had allowed since…since before... 

He swallowed, and was doubly irritated to realize that there was a lump there.   
He withdrew his hand and sat back into the chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest. The cat looked at him indignantly, and stepped forward onto his outstretched legs. Crowley recoiled back and watched in alarmed disbelief as it wobbled across the space between them to his lap, claws digging into his jeans for balance, then stood there looking up at him expectantly. He stayed frozen, staring. When he failed to scratch it again, the cat turned and settled itself down on his stomach in a resigned sort of way. It rested its head on its paws and closed its green eyes, apparently dismissing him from its mind. 

Crowley stared down at it in dismay, back pressed into the armrest as far as he could go, arms still held out at his sides, barely daring to move. If he startled it now it could do a lot of damage with those wicked claws. He had no idea what to do. Somehow his nice, comfortable nap time had become completely absurd in the blink of an eye. Why, oh why, did this shit always have to happen to _him_? 

There was definitely something very wrong with this cat, he decided. Something terribly wrong. Perhaps it was brain-damaged, or ill. Any moment now it was going to snap out of whatever fugue state it was in, realize what he was, and panic or attack. It was a guarantee. Any moment now this weird, surreal truce would end, and reality would revert to normal. 

Its many claws were also dangerously close to his crotch, which he did not appreciate. 

Minutes ticked by, and the cat did nothing. By all appearances it was asleep. 

His arms were getting tired. He glanced around to make sure that Aziraphale was definitely not home. If - _when_ this ridiculous scenario went wrong, the last thing he wanted was an audience. He hesitantly moved one hand to hover above the small black form. He paused for a moment, wondering what the hell he was doing, then slowly lowered it to rest on the furry head. 

A low purr immediately rumbled back to life, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. It vibrated through his stomach and hand, and made a quiet counterpoint to the ticking clock on the mantel. The cat’s body was warm and soft. 

Crowley gently stroked the little animal, throat inexplicably tight, and it did not recoil from his hand. It did not leap up in a panic and run away. 

That wasn’t a big deal, not at all. It _shouldn’t_ be a big deal, dammit, except that it was impossible. Thousands of years of one hundred percent reliable reactions, and now this. It was as disorienting as if gravity itself had reversed its pull. It was bizarre. It was impossible. It was... 

Peaceful. 

He heard the distant click of the door and the familiar tread of Aziraphale’s leather shoes in the entryway. 

He froze, feeling trapped, knowing it was his own fault. He folded his arms again and looked up guiltily as the angel came round the corner. 

He carried a pink cardboard bakery box and was flushed almost equally pink from the brisk air, blue eyes bright and happy. Crowley felt his stomach leap, the way it always did when he first set eyes on him. God, but he was beautiful. 

“So! They had these wonderful fudge cakes, plus some _lovely_ looking macarons that – good heavens.” He halted at the edge of the room and stood stock still, staring, mouth hanging slightly open. He took in the scene before him, eyebrows rising gradually towards his hairline as his wide eyes lingered on the cat sleeping on his stomach. Aziraphale was fully aware of his difficulties with animals, had often teased him about it over the years. “What’s this?” 

“ _D_ _on’t_ say a word,” Crowley warned. He gestured to the sleeping cat. “This isn’t my fault. I was minding my own business and it just jumped right on me. I have no idea how it even got in the house!” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale carefully set the pink box down on the dining table, still staring. “He probably snuck in and hid earlier, when we were all walking in and out.” 

“Wonderful. Come over here and get it off me before it goes mental. We can send it back where it belongs.” 

“I’ve seen him hanging around outside, the last few times we came. He’s extremely friendly. I don’t think he belongs anywhere in particular.” Aziraphale made no move towards him. 

“Right. Well, it certainly doesn’t belong in here.” 

Aziraphale just looked on in silence for a moment. A faint smile was on his lips. “He seems to like you,” he finally said. 

“Animals _don’t_ like me. You know that.” He felt a sharp jab in his abdomen and flinched, thinking the expected reaction had finally come. He looked down, but the cat had simply started to knead its paws on his lower stomach, sending tiny prickles of discomfort lancing through him. “Ow. Ow!” 

Aziraphale just raised his eyebrows higher. He was very good at saying nothing very loudly. “This one seems to.” 

“ _This one_ seems to be defective,” said Crowley, gingerly moving the claws to a less dangerous location. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but it’s definitely not a normal animal.” 

The cat continued kneading. His stomach was going to look like raw meat at this rate. 

“Mm hmm. You seem to like him.” 

“I _don’t_ ,” he muttered. 

Aziraphale was watching him with that slightly purse-lipped, all-too-knowing look that always made him want to simultaneously throttle and kiss him. “Well, then.” The angel shrugged. “Might as well send him back where he came from, I suppose.” He walked over to the window and opened it, then turned and folded his arms, waiting. There was still a light drizzle falling from the grey sky, and the air blowing in was damp and cold. 

“Yeah. All right.” So he was going to be smug, was he? He'd show him.

He looked down at the cat in his lap. Its eyes were shut. He was very warm. He pressed his lips together and jostled his knees a few times, but it didn’t move. Apparently out of options, he reluctantly reached down and picked it up, holding it out awkwardly under the front legs. The moment he touched it, it started to purr again. “Quit it,” he muttered. He lifted it off his lap and hastily set it on the ground. 

Aziraphale walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Darling.” His voice was reproachful now. “Why don’t we at least give it something to eat first?” He bent and scooped up the little cat without waiting for a reply, holding it against his chest and stroking its tattered ears while it batted at his tie with one paw. "Aren't you lovely?" he commented, smiling at it, and Crowley groaned. It was as bad as with the plants. The cat continued purring happily, looking very smug, and allowed Aziraphale to carry it into the kitchen without complaint. Nothing surprising there; animals always loved _him._ That at least he could understand. 

“Oh, all right,” he mumbled, rather unnecessarily. He stood and slunk along behind them, feeling like he was down a point or two in whatever was happening. 

Aziraphale set the cat down and opened the refrigerator. “Goodness. I didn’t know we had all this,” he remarked. It was the sleek, modern, stainless steel fridge from Crowley’s flat, the one he always kept miraculously stocked with gourmet food. He’d completely forgotten about that, to be honest. There were plenty of choices, and the angel pulled out a dish of what looked like chicken parmigiana and began to cut it up. 

The cat immediately walked over and pressed up against Crowley’s ankles, arching its back. He twitched back reflexively, and it looked up at him and let out a faint, rusty miaow. After a moment’s hesitation he crouched down and scratched its head. He could feel Aziraphale watching him. 

“He’s awfully cute,” Aziraphale commented. He put some chicken on a small saucer and handed it to Crowley, who set it on the floor. 

The cat began to gobble the food. “I think it’s just hungry,” he said doubtfully. “That might explain it.” 

“Mmhmm. Perhaps we could let him stay here. Just until the weather clears, at least.” The angel’s voice was very deliberately casual. 

“We just moved in. The last thing we need is an insane cat hanging around who’s too stupid to know to be afraid of a demon.” Despite himself he reached out and stroked its back again; he couldn’t seem to help it. The black fur was so very soft. He could feel every little ridge of its spine with his fingertips. 

Aziraphale came over to stand behind him and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. He had taken off his coat and again wore only his rolled-sleeved blue shirt and trousers. He just stayed there holding him, watching in silence for a minute, loudly saying nothing. After a moment he sighed. “That really is most remarkable.” 

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Crowley said quietly. “You’ve seen how animals are with me.” The cat had quickly finished its meal, and was rubbing up against his hand as he pet it.

“I know. You really aren’t doing anything?” 

“Nothing. It must be the most myopic little bugger on the planet." He still didn't know what to make of it, nor of the sharp, sweet ache that seemed to have taken up residence in his chest. It seemed that his life had become a constant montage of inexplicable events.

“Hm.” Aziraphale sounded thoughtful, and moved around to crouch down next to him, balancing on the balls of his feet. He reached out and absently scratched at the black ears, and the cat practically fell over itself trying to get closer. “Are you so sure it’s the cat? Have you encountered any other animals recently?” 

Crowley racked his brain. “Well...no, I guess it’s been a while. Not much opportunity. So?” 

Aziraphale shrugged, forearms braced on his knees. “So, maybe something’s changed with _you,_ and you just haven’t noticed.” 

_‘People change’._ Like an echo from the back of his mind, he suddenly remembered his strange conversation with that witch girl on their wedding day. He’d completely forgotten about it until now. At the time he’d had far more important things to think about, and had dismissed all her blathering on about changing auras as complete nonsense. He had never even bothered to mention it to Aziraphale. It probably _was_ nonsense. 

He looked uncertainly at the cat again, which was now washing its paws with a pale pink tongue and an air of utter unconcern. It somehow managed to keep purring at the same time. “I think it’s a lot more likely that it’s just an idiot.” He sighed. “I suppose it can stay. For now. Since the weather is so bad, and all.” His hand kept petting of its own accord. 

“Thank you for indulging me, my love.” 

He glanced at him and raised an eyebrow, but the angel’s face was studiously earnest. Hmph. He braced his hands on his thighs and tried to stand, then checked himself with a strangled groan as his muscles seized. His legs and back felt as if they had fused into a single unyielding mass. He wobbled and fell, throwing out a hand towards the counter to catch himself.

Aziraphale’s arms caught him instead, supporting his weight and steadying him before he could hit the floor. “Darling, what’s wrong? Are you sore?” At his affirmative grunt, the angel quickly put an arm around his waist and pulled him to his feet. “Come here, sit down.” He helped him limp over to their sofa, and Crowley collapsed onto its familiar cushions with a groan of relief. Aziraphale sat down next to him, much more gracefully, and took his hand, peering closely at him. “Now. What hurts?” 

_Everything,_ was the answer that came immediately to mind, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say so. “Oh, just…my arms,” he said vaguely. “Those books were pretty heavy.” 

“I see.” Aziraphale gently placed a hand under his chin and kissed him, slowly, closing his eyes. As he did, all the aches and strains from moving simply faded from Crowley’s body as if they had never been, including the pounding headache that he hadn’t even noticed was brewing until now. He sighed in particular relief as the tension unraveled from his back, leaving him pain-free for the first time in hours. He stretched out, enjoying the freedom of movement, and turned the motion into an excuse to put his arms around Aziraphale. “Thank you, my angel.” 

“Of course, love.” 

They held each other in silence for a few minutes, contentedly listening to the fire pop and watching the cat meander around the room. It seemed completely at ease now; it examined all the stacked boxes and poked its head into the open ones before finally hopping up onto Aziraphale’s tartan chair. It curled up there as if it was the most natural thing in the world, the presumptious bastard. 

“If the weather is still terrible tomorrow I’ll go and get him some supplies,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley sighed, giving up. “Oh, alright. I still say there’s something very wrong with it,” he grumbled. He had a sneaking suspicion that the weather would indeed still be bad. He couldn't muster much irritation about that, somehow.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, then hooked an arm around his waist and pulled him over onto his lap in one smooth, effortless motion. Those deceptively soft arms tightened, squeezing. “ _Or_ ,” he said with gentle exasperation, “perhaps there’s nothing wrong with him. I like you too, as you may recall.” He kissed his neck and slid one hand up under his t-shirt. 

“Well, we both know there’s something wrong with you.” Crowley smiled and lay his head against the blond one, closing his eyes. That hand was warm against his chest, and the euphoria of earlier began to creep back in. “So maybe it’d fit in here after all.” 

_A house of misfits and broken things_ , he thought _. What a strange, mad picture we make._ The idea made him grin, and the whole day abruptly struck him as impossibly funny. He laughed and kissed the startled Aziraphale full on the mouth, then made a languid motion with one hand and summoned a bottle of sparkling apple wine from the house’s tiny stone cellar. He set it on the coffee table with a flourish and got to his feet, easily, now that the pain was gone.

“How about we pour some drinks and watch a movie, hmm? I think we’ve done more than enough work today.” 

"That sounds good to me." Aziraphale beamed up at him, cheeks slightly pink from the kiss and clearly pleased by his shift in mood. "You get the glasses, I'll get the desserts."

They did so, and a few minutes later were heading back to the sofa with two full wine glasses and two plates laden with thick slices of chocolate cake. A snap of Crowley's fingers turned on the television and fired up the surround sound system. He had never actually bothered to get speakers for it, but that had never stopped the sound quality from being perfect anyway. It occurred to him that this would be the first time he had ever got to use it with someone else present.

"So then." Aziraphale settled down on the sofa, holding his slightly-too-full glass with delicate care to avoid spilling. He had taken off his own shoes, and tartan socks peeked out from the bottoms of his trouser legs. "What should we toast to?"

Crowley plopped back onto his lap, evoking a yelp of "Careful!" as he jostled the wine and sent it sloshing all over both of them. Another snap vanished the spilled liquid before Aziraphale could fuss too much, and he casually poured him another measure from the bottle. "Oh, I dunno. To everything. To us." He sipped his wine and grinned at him, feeling that giddy, fey energy bubble up inside him again. He leaned in and planted a firm kiss on his lips, and it was as natural as breathing. "To being done with moving all those bloody boxes.”

“Language, dear.” Aziraphale tapped glasses with a clink, still examining his shirt for stains and looking rather put out. He sipped as well. “To very _nice_ demons."

“Ha. To renegade angels, then.” He kissed him again, and took his time about it.

"Mm." Aziraphale was smiling now, eyes still closed, chin tilted up. "To new beginnings and odd twists of fate."

"Yes." Crowley briefly raised his glass towards the still-sleeping animal across the room. "To mad things."

_May they all find a place to call their own._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Illustration by @bubblyernie (Instagram)


End file.
